Golden Boy, Silver Tongue
by Raven Blanchard
Summary: In which a certain sword falls half a foot closer than fated. A Lion dies, lives again, and becomes a Snake. "It appears this dungeon is crammed with vicious inbred imbeciles. Seven Hells, I am surrounded by Joffreys!" (M for language, and overall Tyrion-isms)
1. Through Mismatched Eyes

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 **ONE**

 **Through Mismatched Eyes**

* * *

 _He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad._

\- Rafael Sabatini, "Scaramouche"

* * *

In retrospect, it hadn't been all too surprising.

That sword finally coming down to lop his head off had been a long time coming, he knew. Seven Hells, he must've been waiting for that sword since the moment he first drew breath, straight out of his mother's dying cunt. His _first_ mother's, that was. It was hard to keep all of this straight.

Tyrion remembered the look on the knight's face — Ser Mandon- _fucking-_ Moore, the traitorous degenerate — as the man ran a sword right across Tyrion's face, nearly chopping off his nose. That sparkle in the knight's brown eyes as he caught sight of Tyrion's vain attempts to escape. That malicious smile that graced the knight's chapped lips as he pulled back his sword and _swung_.

That Mandon Moore's treasonous deeds had been quite obviously executed under the Queen Cersei's orders was not entirely unexpected either. The Queen had loathed her deformed brother since he was but a babe — her hatred of him easily far more ardent and adroit than that of the whole Realm and its mother, if Tyrion were to say so himself.

... Although admittedly, he cannot truly "say" anything anymore, as he is already dead.

Or not. The details of his death are nigh impossible to explain, so inexplicable that lafter he would often wonder if he had indeed died at all, or if death is as final as the books and tomes about The Seven had implied. Be that as it may, he _had_ been expecting his demise for _years_ , so it wasn't that which had shocked him.

It was his rebirth. Not the specific details of the event, horrifying as they were, but that the event had happened _at all_. That he had been — truly — reborn. In Tyrion's defence, when he was greeted by The Stranger's arms after Ser Mandon Moore's traitorous sword had been drenched in Lannister blood, he hadn't expected to come out of Its embrace through the cunt of some random wench (his _other-mother_ , he has to keep reminding himself).

"Ah, my sweet, beautiful son," a female voice coos nearby, and he nearly loses his wits as two abnormally large hands pick him up because _what is being done to him and why is he being tossed about like a potato and why can't he_ see _anything?_

"He will grow strong, I can already tell," the same voice murmurs reverently. "And look, such long arms and legs! And his eyes! Oh, are they not _spectacular_? One green as fresh cut grass and the other black as the darkest of shadows! Mismatched! Why, we haven't seen such in the Selwyn line for centuries!"

"A sign of good things to come, I dearly hope," a deep voice replies with a soft laugh. "His fate must be as unique as his eyes."

Tyrion so badly wants to retort that mismatched eyes don't have shit to do with anything — besides perhaps aesthetics and ridiculous superstitions, that is — but at the moment he could only gurgle and glare pathetically at the general direction the vaguely-male voice had come from.

"You will be named Lucan," says the woman as she pulls him close to her disproportionately large bosom. "Lucan Selwyn — for your crown of hair the shade of the sun's golden light."

It brings Tyrion — now _Lucan_ — no small amount of amusement that his new name sounds remarkably self-important and ostentatious, that apparently eye colour carries through death and rebirth, and that he now has normally-sized limbs. Or at least they are "long," as far as his _other-mother_ could tell. Though with his (nonexistent) luck, he might just end up a giant, like that hilariously large halfwit he vaguely remembers seeing in Winterfell. _Odor_ , he thinks the name was.

Well, now, as far as _Lucan_ is concerned, he has no qualms whatsoever about accepting this new reality. This new life. After all, he had once proclaimed himself the 'god of tits and wine'. He had lived a life with plenty of pleasures and precious little pain — if one discounts the Seven Hells that was his childhood and overall family life, and the fact that both his father and sister would have gladly had him beheaded (which one of them had succeeded in doing), that is. His one regret is that he had left that last cup of Dornish wine untouched before the Battle of Blackwater Bay. He would have much preferred to get beheaded — and reborn — heavily inebriated and far into his cups, as he's certain all intelligent men would agree.

* * *

 **A/N: So. This is a thing. My brain comes up with the weirdest shit, y'all, it's a wonder I can pass myself off as a normal human being when I talk about my ideas with my friends. Anyway, tell me what you think! I haven't seen GOT-HP crossovers where Tyrion gets reborn into the HP world, so I thought I should give it a shot.**


	2. Through A Mother's Teat

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 **TWO**

 **Through A Mother's Teat**

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 _The act of vomiting deserves your respect. It's an orchestral event of he gut._

\- Mary Roach, "Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void"

* * *

When Lucan reminisces about this one silent prayer he had made once upon a lifetime (while sat upon a whore's lap, his lips wrapped around her tits), for the Gods to grant him a life in which all he needed to do to remain alive was to suckle on a woman's breast, he can't help but think that what he had asked for then wasn't quite something like _this_.

For one, there was absolutely no _milk_ involved in the making of said prayer.

Breast milk is, in not quite so many words, utterly _vile —_ he admits he shall forever wonder how newborns force themselves to swallow the horrid liquid whenever it pollutes their tongue, for he surely wants nothing more than to vomit after each disgusting mouthful — and were he not certain of a grisly death by starvation without it he might have prayed to the Gods to chop the breasts off of every woman in the world as well, since They seem so well inclined to grant his wishes anyhow.

However, as much as he loathes his "feeding time," it is the most interaction he gets with his mother — or with any other human, truly — for his parents are both busy with managing affairs concerning the death of a character whose name Lucan finds far too flamboyant and far too troublesome to remember, though he does recall from his parents' arguments that said flamboyantly-named character was quite the deplorable excuse of a lord. Though Lucan might never say it out loud (never mind that he _can't_ , had he wanted to), he actually looks forward to those short periods of time in which all he has to think about is the infernal _punishment_ that is the milk in his other-mother's udders. He is ever so _bored_ , and boredom for him means indulging in long bouts of rumination, which he is now finding to be the most unproductive of activities, as he cannot act on his ideas in any manner other than by crying, wiggling, pissing or shitting — all of which he already does on a disturbingly frequent basis, mind.

As it is, his ideas matter very little, if at all. It matters not what he _thinks_ had caused his own rebirth, or _whom_ , for that matter, and it matters not what he _presumes_ he had done to deserve it. It certainly matters not what he might _conclude_ this new life to be — is it his reward or his punishment? — for all that _does_ matter is that he was reborn, that his name is now Lucan Selwyn, and that breast milk isn't quite as amazing as he had once fantasized it to be. Why, he reckons horse piss might even taste better!

He shudders to think of how much longer he has to suffer through the torment that is infantile food.

Not for the first time, he takes a reluctant suck on his mother's tit — lecherous thoughts all but impossible to conjure now that his tongue is quite intimately acquainted with a breast's true, nefarious purpose — and he painstakingly pretends he's suckling the spiced wine that his palate misses so, from those jugs that his Queen sister had prized and guarded so jealously, made infinitely sweeter and much more intoxicating by the accomplishment of its theft. A bit on the warm side, perhaps — as if left to air in a goblet for hours under the heat of the summer sun in the most southern reaches of Dorne — and about a quarter as smooth and ten times as thick, like congealing blood maybe.

No. Not _congealing blood_. Seven Hells, why had he thought that? Now it shall be forever and a day before he banishes the image from his mind.

 _Wine_ , he thinks to himself. _Dornish wine. From the Red Keep. Stolen from Cersei._

Now, if only he were a mindless, idiotic halfwit so easily fooled by self-inflicted, make-believe imagery, then his problem would be half-solved.

Alas, it seems some challenges shall forever remain insurmountable, for Tyrion Lannister has nothing if not a sharp mind, no matter the new life, the new name, and the new body proportions.


End file.
